In the hospital I am drinking coffee
from a plastic cup, it’s edges have melted
into my hand, we are one, the coffee and my hand
There is no time except the movement of two
hands, in reverse, the movement of one hand
chasing down the other, in reverse
There are plastic seats that scratch through
the cheap cotton covering my legs,
they are thin, worn leggings, covering my legs
The doctors pass in secret, we are not supposed to see
to see the doctors pass, in secret they move like
ghosts we are not supposed to see
My grandmother is not yet a ghost
she has flesh still, incandescent and bright, it is on fire,
it glows pale incandescent and bright
they walk towards us, the doctors, these ghosts
and we see them, these ghosts, these doctors
we are not supposed to see
we go to her, my grandmother
incandescent and bright
she is glowing in her hospital bed
already an angel, an angel without wings
the wings that she has are burnt to her back
she won’t be flying anywhere
she is sinking, sinking into her bed
incandescent and bright she blends into
the white sheets
seamlessly
we watch her, sinking seamlessly into the white sheets
we watch her burnt wings crumple beneath the
six stone weight of her
when she stops breathing, we all breath
in and out, we smell the charred bones
that death left, with each breath
we take in what’s left
we leave the hospital bed, the itchy chairs
the ghostly doctors we leave behind
our coffee cups, cut free from our hands
we breathe in each step, our skin
burning for fresh air,
we walk step by step
and the light from the street is so
bright, so incandescent
and bright